


Baby, Baby

by PallasPerilous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Engineer Dean Winchester, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Musician Castiel (Supernatural), Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 15:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18552769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PallasPerilous/pseuds/PallasPerilous
Summary: “Baby,” the man moans, in a tone of such intense agony that it’s as if the piano had fallen onhiminstead of hiscar.(From the PB100 word prompt, "Baby" and a story outline prompt by Jak_the_ATAT)





	Baby, Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jak_the_ATAT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jak_the_ATAT/gifts).



“ **Baby,** ” Castiel corrects. “Baby grand. Not a concert grand.”

“What’s the difference?” the mover asks. The winch tightens around the piano and it begins a slow rise up the face of the brownstone.

“About five hundred pounds.”

It’s still a huge leap up from the digitals and secondhand uprights he’s suffered through in the past. No more midnight subway rides home from the conservatory practice rooms. The only neighbor below him is Deaf; the only neighbors above are pigeons.

An engine rumbles behind them. He’d had the street permitted off, but they don’t need the truck access anymore, so he doesn’t bother to turn around. It cuts out; the wrong kind of music pours out of a driver’s side door.

  
  
»»————-————-««

 

“ **Baby** ,” the man moans, in a tone of such intense agony that it’s as if the piano had fallen on _him_ instead of his _car._ He’s splayed out over the caved-in wreckage of the cab, indifferent to the blast zone of splintered glass and wood.

(Castiel had initially taken the car for a hearse. Who drives a monster like this in _Brooklyn_?)

“We should exchange insurance information,” he says, numbly. Behind him, the movers are frantically collecting ivory keys in a trashbag. 

The man turns and fixes him with an expression of rage-fueled grief that Castiel has only seen in telenovelas and his mother’s vodka phase.

The man’s eyes are green. The parts that aren’t red, anyway.

 

»»————-————-««

 

“ **Baby** ,” Castiel hisses. He says it just low enough that Dean almost misses it in the rustling of all the financial spreadsheets.

“Excuse me?” Dean spits back. Weird Name McFussypants doesn’t want to drop the cash on a mediator so they can do this in separate rooms as god intended; fine, Dean doesn’t either, because you can’t exactly swing by Pep Boys for parts that fit on a ’67. But that means he’s obligated to say shit directly to Dean’s face, no passing off trash talk in _sotto_ fuckin’ _voce._

See? Dean knows stuff about music, too.

“I said you’re being a baby,” Castiel _growls_. “It’s a car. A _machine_. I lost an _instrument._ ”

“Hate to bust your bubble, Liberace, but a piano’s a machine, too. And a car’s an instrument.”

The guy squints at him, like a pissed-off Siamese.“On what planet?”

“The one where I have an engineering degree from Columbia and you play showtunes for a living.”

Castiel’s nostrils flare and he gets some color in his cheeks. (So maybe Dean’s playing with his food a little. So sue him. But don’t, actually.) Then he stands up and grabs his gross trenchcoat and makes for the door.

“Whoa, hey, we’re not done here,” Dean says, protectively shuffling up the leaf pile of paperwork.

Castiel flings open the conference room door. “I’m going to a bar. We can finish this over booze, or over e-mail. Your choice.”

 

»»————-————-««

 

“ **Baby?** ” Dean huffs, blind, his fingers clenching in the salty seaweed mess of Cas’s hair. Tongue and stubble lathe an invisible pathway up his midline.

“Hmn?”

“Where the _fuck_ did you come from?”

There’s a snicker from somewhere near his ribcage. “Are you asking me if it hurt when I fell from Heaven?”

Dean gasps a little. “Heaven – that’s upstate, right?”

And that’s the last gag he gets in for the night. ( _Well._ )

 

»»————-————-««

 

“ **Baby.** ” Cas mutters, face half buried in the pillow.

“It’s your turn,” Dean mumbles back, a reflex response he’s somehow trained himself to deliver while totally unconscious. It worked on Castiel for _weeks,_ but the prospect of teaching Prokofiev on less than five hours’ sleep has sharpened his defenses.

“Nn-nh. Yours,” he says, and digs a heel into Dean’s shin.

“You dropped your piano on my car,” Dean mutters.

“You parked your car under my piano,” Cas responds.

“Gave the movers the wrong weight.”

“Parked illegally.”

Dean groans, kicks off the covers. “Where’s that classic car you were gonna get me, huh?”

“I got you a Metrocard,” Castiel protests.

Dean scoffs; Castiel fwaps blindly back at him, landing a glancing blow to a retreating elbow. “Where’s _my_ new grand piano?”

There’s another tragic little wail from the monitor. Dean clumsily circles the bedroom in the dark, bends over to land a sleep-drunk kiss on the upper half of Castiel’s left ear.

“I _did_ get you a baby.”

“Fuck off,” Cas grumbles.

 

But he doesn’t mean a word of it.


End file.
